Daffodils

Where are your restrictions in the song of the mute? A place where your convictions fail to constrict the root of desperate expression found in her version, Because when it gets Harder to Breathe she needs relief she knows Where Not to Look For Freedom in this Funhouse hear the sound of a Second Chance and turn around to you and say Have a Nice Day. For where are your chains in the words of the forgotten? You sympathizers of Cain that take on the precaution of judgement and damnation against any free creation, So she runs off to where Hope is the thing with feathers exactly when, no one cares or sees her and Clarisse watch Dustfinger play with fire upon his grave while Dorian prayed with desire his soul he gave to Screwtape waiting in the mire. And where are your ropes in the hands of the crippled? When a pencil is used to cope within your world of stressful riddle questioning whether the German owns the fish or was the interpretation a wish, In ink or paint or simple graphite a picture drawn faint can be seen at night with the heart of the artist clouded in the mist of the symbolism surveyed from her unknown trade. Where are your molds in the minds of the weary? Your blasphemy of the bold leaves even Goliath teary with self-doubt and shame but she refuses to play your game, And finds shelter in Longfellow refuge in the mellow or passionate thoughts of the old stirring intellect untold she searches for that nautical shell O Captain! My Captain, escape from this hell claiming Invictus all’s well that ends well. So tell me, where are your molds, your restrictions, your ropes, and chains from your burdening pain? You cannot put limitations on Imagination on Interpretation no condemnation no superficial justification can touch Me, I mean, her.. when she is free.